Cold eyes
by benjymen
Summary: Harry Potter tried all his life to please his relatives. Then he realized that he couldn't and did not deserve to be mistreated. And that if everyone was evil because they could, so will he. Evil Harry, Dark Harry, Cold and manipulative Harry. If you can't stomach rape, torture, abuse, profanity and so on, please do not read. There will be no slash.
1. Prologue

**I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, I wouldn't be writing this, would I?**

This story will feature a dark and evil Harry. If you can't stomach rape, torture, abuse, profanity and so on, please do not read. There will be no slash.

Harry Potter, having just turned eight, was curled up in the cupboard of Number four, Privet Drive, thinking about his life so far. He was a short boy for his age, yet his muscles were shaped by years of hard manual labor for the Dursleys, his relatives. He had dedicated his life so far to please them, without much success.

His aunt once said out loud about how he was shaming them with his mere presence? He did his best to stay out of sight and to be as invisible as he could. He was very successful about that, people seemingly not paying him attention in most of the case, which was strange when he thought about it. Yet, she always keeps sending him evil glares each time she noticed him.

His uncle complained about his free-loading and his taxing the family income? He never ate from their table again, stealing food from the neighbors or money from the passerby, which he used at the local grocery store. He was doing all the chores he could, and fainted from exhaustion more than once, which earned him a beating each time. He even went as far as doing all the gardening; saving his uncle precious money from the professional gardener his aunt hired every week to keep the garden pristine. Yet he was still being called freak.

Dudley did not like sharing with him the same classroom? He arranged to have to redo his first year with dreadful grades, saving the fatter boy the heavy burden of being in his presence. Yet, even if he was doing his best to stay as silent and discreet as he could, Dudley tried to sic his friends on him. Not that they ever managed to catch him.

No, he decided, nothing that he did was good enough to please them nor ever would. How was it to be? Why couldn't the Dursleys, who were such a _normal family,_ show him, their relative by blood, even a small token of love?

Harry may have had to do again a year in his school but he wasn't dumb. He had spent hours reading the untouched books offered to his cousin, hiding in the unused second bedroom where his relatives seldom went. And he spent most of the time when he wasn't doing chores or stealing thinking about what he read.

His relatives called him freak and absolutely despised his mother and father. And, he figured, they must have very good reason. After all, no one hated someone over nothing. So he figured that he indeed was a freak. And that despite his best attempts, that wouldn't change. That none of his best efforts would ever change that and that he would forever be, as the dictionary said : "A person, that is extremely unusual and not like any other of its type".

Yet he knew that there were others, just like him, freaks, somewhere in Britain. Why, some of them even seemed to know him and to salute him! Yet he could not for the life of him figure how they did, nor manage to talk with one of them. They were of the elusive sort, those freaks. Just like him, now that he thought about it. Yet, no one ever tried to help him. Freaks, he knew, were evil.

But what was that freakiness about? He knew that his relatives went absolutely medieval at the slightest odd thing occurring when he was nearby, but that included a lot of things. His hair, the fact that his roses were growing during winter, that one time when the clerk, glassy eyed, gave all the money he had to Vernon after one of his comment on how costly life was, his unnatural endurance when his uncle beats him, his green eyes who apparently flashed when he was angry, according to Dudley or even the accidents nearby. Come on, how could it be his fault that the television from 3, Privet Drive, exploded? That was just a coincidence, even if the neighbors did have badmouthed him a minute earlier.

Having decided that he was indeed a freak and that nothing would change that, he concluded that his efforts to be appreciated were useless. No matter how hard a cat tried, he would never be a dog after all. But then, the bad treatment that he had received which was according to his relative, to cure him from his freakiness … it wasn't fair? After enduring years of bad mouthing, occasional beating from Vernon, and general mistreatment, he eventually realized that he did not deserve any of it. Why then?

So it was that, one night, in the cupboard of a normal house, an eight years old child with green eyes realized that the world wasn't fair and that people were evil just because they could. That he was most likely condemned to spend years suffering without reason, because of what he was, and that none of his previous efforts even mattered. That if the upstanding citizens of privet drive treated him that way, and other freaks ignored him, that meant that they weren't good people in the world. And that if his family wasn't able to love him that meant that no one would. Ever. After crying for hours, knowing that no one cared or ever would, he decided that if people were evil, so would he. His decision taken, his eyes went cold.

That same night, far away, in a castle in Scotland, a bearded man, asleep in a bed larger than the cupboard of the boy, shivered in his sleep. That same night, a future that could have been died as the innocence in the eyes of harry potter left forever.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter one

Eva Randor was a sixty-something years old lady owning a small convenience store in Surrey, a mere ten minutes' walk away from Privet Drive. Age had not done her any favor and she was quite dim-witted, not having received any formal education worth speaking of, and having spent her whole life smiling to customers and small talking with them. Yet, mused Harry, examining her through his bangs, while she was staring a good half a meter to his left, smiling blankly, her attitude wasn't making any sense.

When he had first decided to pay for his own food, he was only six and that alone had caused him a lot of unforeseen problems. Namely, he had been thrown out of the first store he had tried, and told to come back with his parents by an irate man who refused to have business from an obviously alone little boy. That had upset him quite a bit. After all, he had spent the last month earning money the only way he could think of, and had three wallets safely hidden in his cupboard under a loose board. He had spent his free time stalking around in the neighborhood, noticing the more distracted passersby, and had managed to snatch, unnoticed, the precious pounds his Uncle was always talking about.

And yet the three stores he had tried refused his hard won money! It was infuriating. So when he had entered that small convenience store, alone as always, and when old Eva had stared at him and opened his mouth, no doubt to tell him to go away, he had stared back with all the burning hot fury he could muster. And she had not said anything. Not a peep. Satisfied by his apparent victory, he had quickly gathered the food he so longed. Wandering happily in the small store, thinking about his uncle reaction when he would not ask for food that evening, he returned to Miss Eva, who was still staring, blankly, at the wall. Yet, she had still ringed all his articles, and stored away his hard earned money when he gave her the amount requested without any comments. That was weird. Maybe she had gone senile?

Shrugging it off, he then returned to his Uncle's house. Of course, his relatives merely grunted when he did not take part in the dinner that night and never commented the fact that he never asked for food again. He had of course endured a few inquisitive glances the first few times when he declined food, but they never asked. And after a month, they just stopped asked him.

Two years later, the space under his cupboard's loose board was full with wallets, and he kept returning to Eva's store. Yet, she still had to say to him a word. That was why he decided, after his eight years old anniversary's epiphany, to come back here in the first place to know more about his freakiness. He had seen her talk with others customers, but only stared at him. He had thought about not paying, but there was a camera, and he was worried about the trouble it could bring him. His Uncle would literally tear him a new one if he was caught stealing.

She was totally unresponsive, he decided, after having poked her for a few minutes and passing his hand in front of her glassy eyes. That … opened possibilities. Maybe his freakiness allowed him to put people in such a state? That would explain why the Dursleys were so wary of him.

He decided he had to try it and dedicated the next month of classes at staring, with all the emotions he could muster, to his teacher, a bald man in his mid-forties. The only notable effect was a very uncomfortable professor, who menaced after a while to speak with his relatives if he did not stop his creepy staring.

That was a total failure. He pondered his next move for an entire Sunday, sitting in a park, not really knowing what to do, only to be disturbed from his musing by Dudley's gang. That annoyed him, a lot. He had much to do, and needed time to think, and these idiots were ruining his spare time. He decided, here and then, that he wasn't going to hide or run. He just had enough. If they wanted to play Harry hunt, so be it, and he would show them that hunting was dangerous for a reason. He would make them go away from him! He was then greatly disturbed by what occurred. The whole gang froze, looking around in wonder, and asked each other's why they were in that lame park before walking away, utterly confused.

A great victory, or so he thought, until he returned home to his cupboard. Inside, hidden, was Dudley. Who immediately jumped on him and pinned him down under his considerable weight. On his fat face, Harry could read an intense hatred he had never witnessed.

"I know what you did, Freak!" He snarled. "Daddy sent us to catch you and teach you your place, but you made us forget all about it, right?! Now you made him think we just forget and had taken away my money for a week! I know it's you!" He then raised his overweight arm and slammed it on Harry's face, hard, breaking his glasses and pushing them over his forehead, where they got stuck somehow in Harry abundant hair. And he punched him again. And again. And again.

Harry then saw red. That fat ass was hurting him just because he could, and he knew from his previous experience that he would only stop when he decided he had enough, that no one would ever punish him, or even tell him to not do it again. Worse, if he retaliated, he was going to be punished, and a lot more than what he was currently experiencing. And Dudley, cackling madly while he hurt him, knew it too. All his life he had let him do it, all his life he tried to please his cousin, his uncle, his aunt… even Marge! And he had endured it all, not saying anything to stop the abuse, hoping that one day they would stop and accept him as one of them. For nothing. But this, this was too much. Well, fuck it. To hell with the consequences. And when Dudley raised his arm again, a triumphant smile on his face, he untangled his owns arms from his cousin massive body, and decked him as hard as he could. With a sickening noise, little Duddykin nose snapped and blood flowed in great quantity on the floor as he rolled away from harry, out of the cupboard.

The overweighed kid then said in an amazed voice "you … you hit me?! I'm going to tell!"

But Harry wasn't finished. He pushed himself up, the world a red maze swirling around him as he gathered all his strength, ran and slammed his cousin away with both hands, creating a massive shockwave and a huge booming noise and sending Dudley flying away. To his surprise, he sent him further than what he had expected … through the wall, and outside the house. "Oh boy" he thought, looking through the blood dripping from his forehead where the remains of his glasses had obviously not appreciated the shockwave, at what he could see without his glasses of the destroyed wall "this time I'm really going to get it." Then he fainted and fell on the bloodied floor.

He woke up in a white room, twenty hours after, with a killer headache and both his hands bandaged. There, a nice looking blonde lady gave him water, handed him new glasses and gently asked him how he was. He wasn't fooled, of course. No one had ever been nice to him without reason. She was just making up a front because she was expecting something from him, most likely because she wanted answers. So after assuring her he was ok, he just played dumb and stated that he did not remember about what happened. Then he enquired about his relatives and where he was.

She stated that there was some kind of gas explosion at his relative's house. His Uncle and Aunt were fussing about his cousin, who, he was told, was in a very bad state. Apparently the gas explosion had launched him through a well, breaking a lot of bones in the process. She was reluctant to tell more but he guessed that his cousin was in a gruesome state. He, she said, was carried in St Valentin Hospital, which was where he was, and tended for. Apparently, he had suffered a concussion from the explosion and had had shards from his glasses projected all over his face. It seemed that he also hurt his hands in the process, but they would have to do a radio to be sure of the extent of the damage.

From her explanations, he figured that she was genuinely unaware of his freakiness, which explained her attitude. She really believed in the explosion theory, but would his relatives do? That probably would not matter, he decided. Even if they were convinced that there was a gas explosion, they would still blame him somehow. He was used to it, taking the blame for everything from the rainy days to the clogged drain. He would have to change something about that, he mused darkly.

The next few days were uneventful. The doctors figured that his hands were okay, but sill insisted to keep him at the hospital to look at his head. He was now the proud bearers of even more scars on his forehead, as if the big, bolt shaped one wasn't enough. At least the new ones superposed with the old one, which was now barely recognizable, hidden in a sea of tiny scars. They also had, to Harry immense dismay, to cut quite a bit of his hair to have better access to the shards. He had loved his very long hair, which hid very nicely his freaky scar and he liked to peek at people through his bangs. It also had the added benefit of looking less messy. Now he had to deal with, in his opinion, an ugly short haircut. And this time, it refused to grow back as it once did, to his aunt horror. He of course, could not figure why.

He had figured during his time at the hospital quite a number of things about his freakiness. First, and most important of all, it was obviously intent based. His rage seemed to be working the best, as could testify Dudley broken bones. It seemed that the boy was lucky to be alive, and would never walk again. Not that Harry cared the slightest bit. In his eight years old cruel opinion, Dudley deserved his fate tenfold for all that he did. It had also worked when he was riled up against Miss Eva, or when he decided to stand up to the gang, in the park. But anger wasn't the only trigger, he remembered that it was fear that had helped him regrow his hair, and that had send him on the roof when he was cornered by Dudley and his mates in his first year at school. But, as he had experienced with his failed attempt with his teacher, his ability to consciously wield them sucked and sucked hard.

His abilities also seemed to have a limit, and an easily reached one at that. He could barely distract a pack of eight years old boys, but could make a sixty years old, weak willed lady, stare at a wall. Also, he was absolutely exhausted after punching Dudley and had slept for a lot of time, according to the doctors. And, his hair was growing way faster than expected, as he noticed at the end of the week. Still, it wasn't the instant growth he had previously experienced. That had to mean that his freakiness was coming back, and that he could only do a bit before exhausting it. It was, he figured, like if he had a Well of Freakiness inside him, that was constantly replenishing itself at a very slow rate and from which he could draw when he was particularly worked up, to accomplish what he wanted. He then realized that he had even more to do, now that he had decided to embrace his freakiness. His Well of Freakiness was painfully shallow, and replenished itself painfully slowly. Worse, his access to his freaky powers was very limited and he could not consciously use them to do things.

What things exactly, that was the question. That seemed to englobe teleportation, super strength, hair growth, and obviously limited mind control, but there was probably even more. He had to find out! And, his eyes widening in the process, he eventually found just how to know more! His aunt knew his mother, knew about his freakiness! He did not have to enter a painful trial and error phase, he knew somebody who already knew all the answers, or at least a lot of them! Now, he just had to convince her to talk about it. And he would have more luck trying to convince his uncle to embrace a non-materialist philosophy and give away his money. To eccentric hobos, English hating Irish.

That he eventually decided was going to be a long winded task, and his first priority. Well, his first priority after he managed to stay alive. That was his first priority at the moment.

He feared the moment where he had to leave the safe haven of the hospital and had to face his relative ire. It was very clear for him that he was untouched because his Uncle was worried about the reaction of the doctors if he started to maim him. But the minute he would be alone with them in their house … he had no doubt that Dudley had babbled about him, if the murderous glares from his uncle and the terrified ones from his cousin were any clue.

The retaliation was going to be terrible, painful and was going to delay him for a lot of time. If he even survived. After all, from his Uncle perspective, he had destroyed his house, blown up his son, a pure angel in his eyes, which would never walk again because of him. He doubted he would escape

That just wouldn't do, he mused darkly. After all, his uncle had sent Dudley after him, and was the origin of all this trouble. It was his entire fault! He had suffered enough already! And his uncle wasn't even blood related to him … it would be such a shame if something happened to him …

That day, in a small hospital in London, a little boy of eight with a scarred forehead began plotting his uncle's murder.


End file.
